Dear Abby
by ncisnewbie
Summary: Eric is struggling to deal with dating Nell while she's in the field, so he writes a "Dear Abby" letter, but it's to Abby Sciuto, not Abigail Van Buren. Set after "Home is Where the Heart Is."


Dear Abby

Standard disclaimers apply: I do not own NCIS: Los Angeles, or NCIS.

Dear Abby,

It's been a long time since I've written to you, but you've always been such a good friend, and I've always thought that you were a good person, open and easygoing, so I thought you'd be a good listener—well, reader in this case. Since you're supporting the DC team in kinda' the same way I'm supporting the LA team, I thought I could use your perspective. I guess that's a long way of saying I need to vent, but maybe I mean I'm saying I don't know what to do.

But maybe I should back up. Here's an update on what's been going on in the Los Angeles field office. I'm sure you remember Kensi Blye. She was injured on a classified mission with the team in Syria, and right now she's partially paralyzed. She's been in a hospital out here, but I must say it's shaken up Marty Deeks, the LAPD detective who's her partner—and boyfriend.

He spends a lot of time at the hospital, and it looks like what sleep he gets he gets on a chair in her hospital room. He'll show up at the OSP, and—if I didn't know the story—I'd have guessed it was a hangover. It's actually the poor sleeping conditions and the stress of thinking that your partner—in every sense of the word—might never walk again. He's a cheerful guy normally, but I'd bet that Kensi's so strong-willed that his greeting-card optimism would go over with her like poo in a punchbowl.

With Kensi laid up, (I guess that's the best term for it.) Nell is getting to go into the field more. I keep telling myself to be happy for her: it's a step she's wanted to take for a long time. The fact is, though, that I'm scared. She and I have become more close and I guess you could call her my girlfriend—Wow! I can't believe that she'd choose me, of all people. She and I just "click," and it's so amazing all I can say is just...just...wow!-but when I think that something might happen to Nell, it ties my stomach into knots. Just last week, she got hit with a flash-bang and I really think I took it worse than she did. She was disoriented and bumped around, but seemed to take it in good spirits. The worst part was that I had to watch security-cam footage over and over looking for clues, but helpless.

I just wish I could have been there with her! Maybe I'd have seen the tripwire, or I'd have figured out that it was a setup. If not, I'd have been the one to pay the price by going through what she went through. On top of that, there's a sense in which I'm jealous of Deeks. He's had all of this time on stakeouts and driving around with Kensi. Then, when their helicopter crashed, he was there to help...he had her back. If it had been Nell, I'd have been stuck 6300 miles away, unable to help.

This is not to say that I haven't been working toward getting into the field myself. My top score at the pistol range is 93%, and I've been doing more and more hand-to-hand. I think if I had a few days to practice on that alone, I'd be ready for FLETC.

Okay, I mean my skills would be ready for FLETC. Whether my attitude would be is a different question: I'm amazed at how many gunfights our team faces, how many times they have to wrestle a bad guy into submission, and how many explosions they see. I still can't imagine that I'd be able to get through all that. Sure, I've seen some gunfights and I spend some time—probably too much—playing World of Warcraft, but I have a hard time imagining that I could do that for a living, with real bullets and real explosions...and real consequences. I admire the heck out of the team that they can go out there and do their job, day in and day out, but I can't help but fear what would happen to me if I did that: not just the risk that I'd be injured or killed, but that I'd be paid to go out there and do that to others. Even the bad guys, I have trouble imagining I'd be tasked with killing them. Well, not tasked with killing them, but tasked with stopping them and authorized to use deadly force if necessary. I'm just not sure I'm that guy.

But if that's what it takes to go into the field, to have Nell's back, that's what I've got to do: just man up and ask the boss for what I want. Tomorrow: I'll ask Hetty tomorrow. Thanks for listening. Thanks for helping me decide. Wish me luck.

Eric

* * *

postscript:

Well, here's what happened, and it's not at all what I expected. I went through most of the day keeping my nerves in check, even though my stomach was in a knot. Nell could tell that something was off, but I wouldn't tell her. Lunch was white bread and a banana. I think Anna Kolchek noticed, but she was polite enough to ask only whether I was battling a stomach bug.

In the afternoon, I begged off a game of racquetball with Nell, screwed up my courage, and approached Hetty's office. Unable to find a good preface, and still standing up, I just blurted it out. "Hetty, I'd like to get my FLETC training."

Hetty looked surprised, but it seemed I surprised her with my bluntness, rather than by the request itself. "Mr. Beale, please have a seat." She motioned me to the chair, then turned to her cabinets. I had expected her to start her tea ceremony, which I'd seen many times during my time here, but instead, after a moment's thought, she reached into a different cabinet and extracted two crystal tumblers and a golden bottle with a black label. Whisky. I'd seen others drink with Hetty, but never myself been honored with a solo taste from her collection.

After she poured our drinks, she began. "Mr. Beale, this is Glencadam 25-year-old. They only started bottling single-malts again nineteen years ago, but a friend, a Scot high up in the command at MI6, procured for me this bottle from their tasting range. The rest, he says, will be aged in new oak barrels for another fifteen years to become their premier 40-year-old. Please do enjoy it, for there were only two hundred twenty three bottles ever produced."

I took a sip. "Wow!"

"You noticed, I'm sure, the raisin and dried fruit notes in the aroma, and a hint of white pepper in the finish." I nodded dumbly, thinking "If you say so, boss." She continued, "That comes from the Cima Corgo port barrels in which this was aged. The distiller decided this taste was too refined for general distribution. In point of fact, Glencadam had for many years sold most of its whisky to blenders, who valued the way it complemented other, more single-minded whiskeys, and the way Glencadam added a distinctive, intellectual air to their blends." It dawned on me then that Hetty never does anything without a purpose. Even this, the simple act of sharing a drink, was done with the idea of developing a metaphor.

She returned to face me, and took another sip of her whisky. "With the training you've undertaken, Mr. Beale, you've presented me with a choice. I find it's always good to have choices, even if the choice I take is for the status quo." My heart sank, but she continued anyhow. "Would I rather have you in the Ops center, working your wizardry on the internet, providing, almost at lightning speed, the details the team needs, while Ms. Jones is partnered with one of our exceptionally experienced agents? Or would I rather have you in the field, partnered with Ms. Jones, struggling with the dangers—and with your own moral compass? On top of that, Mr. Beale, I would have to replace you in Ops. Few have mastered this new technological world as thoroughly as you, and if anyone can keep the team safe, it's you.

"Which of these choices would help us complete our cases more effectively? Which more safely? If this is about Ms. Jones, let me particularize this one step further. Which of these choices would keep Ms. Jones more safe? Perhaps you don't realize as fully as I do that your skills in Ops are nearly irreplaceable. From that it follows that Ms. Jones will be more safe if we continue to devote your considerable talents to providing the technological support she and the team rely upon." Never have I been turned down so flatteringly! I had trouble believing my ears.

She reached into her desk and extracted a single manilla folder. "It has not escaped my notice that the technical support side of our operation has gone from two full-time-equivalents to one, and I fear that sooner or later—despite your best efforts—our technological infrastructure will fail to keep up with our needs, or our adversarys' skills. This is not a concern about your skill, or your dedication, or even the new interests in your life." I think I saw her smile knowingly. "Rather, the cases these days seem to come so quickly that by yourself you cannot simultaneously support the team on the current case, complete the documentation on previous cases, and maintain our hardware in its best condition and our software at the cutting edge." She handed me the folder. "This is a draft of an announcement for the newly created position of your assistant. My image is that you could delegate to them as much of the routine work as you feel comfortable delegating. The technological side of the position announcement is, however, beyond my understanding. Please look over what I have drafted, for it's important that your new assistant have the skills you need."

I was flabbergasted. At first, I thought it was the Glencadam going to my head, but then I realized how fully what she had said had surprised me.


End file.
